


An Artless Proposal

by raeldaza



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, of sorts, they're both dramatic disasters who love one another dearly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: Aziraphale left the shop and promptly tripped over the doorway step, which he hoped was not a bad omen.The ring sat heavy in his front pant pocket, settled in a little velvet bag.





	An Artless Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> This has been my favorite book for about a decade and the miniseries warmed my heart just so much that I just. I had to do something.

It was a grey, rainy day.

When he cares to reminisce, in his head or enthusiastically to anyone who’s resigned enough to listen, Aziraphale likes to pretend that it was a nice day, because there’s something rather gloomy about such an important moment occurring when it was all dark and wet and bleak.

That, however, is the truth of the matter, and the real truth is that it happened _because_ it was a rainy day.

Aziraphale had recently purchased a new pair of shoes. Half-off-white canvas, half brown, supple leather. He had proudly shown them to Crowley when they arrived in the mail in a little brown Amazon box, and had received a half-smile and nod in response, along with a, “Nice,” before Crowley went back to his pot of boiling – boiling something or other. Receiving anything other than scorn from Crowley in regards to fashion was a rather large win as far as Aziraphale was concerned, and, all night long, he found himself smiling fondly at the shoes sitting by the door.

So, of course, he simply had to wear them at first opportunity.

Due to someone in the weather department upstairs being in a rather snit with him, the first opportunity happened to be a rainy Tuesday.

Aziraphale was no stranger to staying inside all day – as was Crowley, who wasn’t fond of water nor of mussing his hair – and normally would enjoy a good tea and chat in favor of a good walk outside, but Tuesdays were the local farmer’s market, and this particular market was the only one within decent distance that carried a rather old and rare brand of cheese that Aziraphale favored.

“I can’t miss it, but it’s just dreadful out,” he had fretted to Crowley, that morning. “Simply dreadful.”

“I can take you in the Bentley,” Crowley had offered.

Aziraphale’s gaze shifted from the rain puddle in their driveway to the said car, parked half on the sidewalk. “Oh no, I think that’s rather alright.” Crowley had stared at him, large, yellow eyes unblinking, his long limbs swaying gently back in forth from where he had them hanging off the chair. “Fresh air is good for me,” Aziraphale tried. “Really gets the—blood pumping. Oxygen levels rising. Lungs – inflating. Don’t want to get premature heart disease.”

“Right,” Crowley had drawled. “Because that can’t be miracled away.”

Aziraphale had laughed awkwardly, smiled far too brightly for two seconds, and then shuffled to the door, gaze down to his feet.

He put on the shoes.

* * *

The problem, however, with canvas shoes, and rain, and London streets, and the level of sanitation on this continent, was that these factors did not mix together into a pleasant smoothie for one’s shoes.  


Aziraphale wouldn’t call himself adventurous or particularly exploratory, at least when it came to daily routine. He was up for the odd trip to Mumbai, especially if it meant trying new restaurants, but of the (roughly) 4,000 different paths he could take to the farmer’s market, he had taken precisely one.

However, that path was old and in a bit of a valley and had a simply astonishing amount of puddles for a .7 mile stretch of concrete.

And so, in a rare fit of worry over his appearance, Aziraphale elected to turn down the _second_ street on the right, rather than the third.

Nearing two-thirds of the way down this new street, which was named Mulberry, Aziraphale passed a shop.

The shop – which was owned by a nice older woman named Maude whom he had passed a total of 31 times before in his life and had yet to take notice – was a small, highly overpriced jewelry outlet, with a rather large array of engagement rings in the window.  

Aziraphale would have never taken notice of the shop or Maude if she had not hit him with the door.

“Oh, pardon me,” she apologized. “I was just going out for a smoke. Were you coming in?”

“Oh, well, I—”

“’Cause if you are, I’a can wait to smoke. I’m not addicted, not no more.”

Aziraphale smiled, a touch awkward. He bounced on his toes. “Well, that’s very good.”

“Nasty blasted habit, that.” She rummages through her sweater pocket, a rather large one, hand forging deep. “Would you look a’ that, I forgot my lighter.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” He inches away from her. “Well, it’s been lovely—”

“You gonna come on in, then?” She grasps his shoulder, rather hard for a mortal, and drags him through the door. A bell tingles.

* * *

Despite Crowley’s teasing, Aziraphale really is rather concerned with not appearing rude, so he peruses the stands and looks through glass and makes the right facial expressions at a variety of jewels. He estimates that three minutes is an appropriate sum of time to give a stranger your feigned interest.

He’s roaming around the south side of the store, glancing into a glass case with a dark blue velvet lining the bottom, when his eye catches on the small advertising sign beside the rings.

_“To secure your forever.”_

* * *

Aziraphale has read a considerable number of books written by humans. Fiction and non-fiction, histories and mysteries, fantasy and fable, crime and drama. Though some would disagree, he doesn’t believe himself particularly discriminating on what parts he consumes of that particular bit of human culture.

Romances are oft fond of this one little phrase, one that Aziraphale has often pondered watching his hot chocolate grow cold.

“Love of my life.”

Love, despite what his heavenly counterparts might say, is not the difficult part of that phrase. In the BC times, he stayed with the fairly neutral “rather like.” He abandoned that for “fond of” in the 2nd century. By 1011, he stopped avoiding the word “love” when he first tried deep fried noodles in China.

It’s not even the word in connotation with another person that trips him. When you smile every time they appear, it’s not that hard to deduce.

No, Aziraphale struggles with the concept of “my life.”

What does that mean, in context of an eternal being?

His time in heaven before the start of – well – everything? What about when he had no corporal body? How about that unfortunate time during the Boshin war when his vessel exploded (the paperwork, oh, the paperwork), and he briefly inhabited a young man in a coma in a nearby hospital tent?

What are the parameters of a life when there is no clear start nor finish line?

However – _forever._ That’s a concept of which Aziraphale is wildly familiar.

* * *

“Are ye interested?”

Aziraphale startled. “Oh, dear.” He placed a hand on his heart. “I’m afraid you gave me a bit of a fright.”

The woman, who was now donning an ancient tweed jacket, nodded to the display. “Ye interested?”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks suddenly go rather pink. “Oh, heavens, I don’t – I don’t think so. Most likely not. I doubt it.” Eyebrows were being raised at him, and he suddenly felt the impulse to justify the hesitation. “You see, my relationship, well, it’s rather, how you say, it’s rather unique, I suppose. We’ve been together a very, very long time, but also, not very long at all, and—”

She taps on the casing, rather hard, if Aziraphale has any knowledge of structural integrity of plexiglass. “Every dame appreciates a ring.”

“Oh, I am sure that’s true, my good fellow, but, however, ‘dame’ isn’t exactly the accurate—”

“Do you love her or not?”

The question gave Aziraphale pause.

“Well. Of course.”

“Committed?”

Six thousand years of “accidentally” finding excuses to be around each other no less than twice a month would point to that one being a yes.

“Want to spend the rest of time with her?”

Aziraphale swallowed. Blinking fairly rapidly and looking down at his shoes – muddied, of course – he nodded rapidly.

“Then what ye waiting for?”

It’s a marketing technique, but, somehow, still a fair question.

* * *

Aziraphale left the shop and promptly tripped over the doorway step, which he hoped was not a bad omen.

The ring sat heavy in his front pant pocket, settled in a little velvet bag.

* * *

Crowley paused from running the towel through his hair. “You’re acting shifty.”

“I positively have no idea what you’re talking about. I am not ‘shifty.’ I am an angel, I do not—”

“You’re literally shifting in your chair right now.”

That was, unfortunately, accurate.

“I just have a lot of my mind, that’s all.”

“Alright,” Crowley said, drawing out the ‘l’ like he has a habit of doing when he concedes an argument he still thinks he has won.

“Chicken?” Aziraphale offers, pointing to the door, where outside it, to the left, and five paces down is their shared little kitchen, where, indeed, a chicken breast is boiling in a pot.

“No,” Crowley dismisses, waving a hand. He leaves the towel around his shoulders. “I was at the farm today and saw that chicken, Helga. Don’t think I can stomach eating one tonight.”  


“Ah, very well.”

* * *

Aziraphale has very little idea on what Crowley’s opinion of marriage is.  


That is, most likely, because the idea of marriage is ridiculous.

Marriage means nothing to angels and demons. Most Earth-bound beings change vessels fairly frequently. Most don’t stay on Earth long enough to know anyone personally. Most don’t become close with another being, let alone another _species,_ to think of long-term commitment. Most don’t fall in love. Heavens – hells, perhaps, is the more appropriate explative – _no one_ fell in love.

And even if they spit convention in the face – which they are not wholly _not_ in the habit of doing, Aziraphale supposes – it’s still silly.

The paperwork would be null before it’s even filed, due to the lack of real names, birth places, birth dates, social security numbers, parents, or human signatures.

No point, in summary, for an angel or demon to even spend a single moment considering it.

Despite these facts of which Aziraphale is all too aware, he considers it.

He absolutely considers it.

Because, as he’s considering it, idly and completely not idly, he finds that some part of him yearns for it.

He craves permanence in a way he can scarcely begin to articulate. He wants the world to stay as it is, nice and whole and Armageddidn’t. He wants his bookshop to stay open and clean and with a profit margin as nearing $0 as he possibly can manage without being audited. He wants Crowley to continue to conveniently pop his head into his life every time he needs a smile and to feel a rush of happiness. He wants to smile and feel a rush of happiness every single day.

Aziraphale fought – tried, prayed, lied, battled, begged, cried – for his world to stay the same. One does not do that unless they have something worth keeping. The looming probability of loss that they both have lived through had been almost crippling in its inevitability, and, being on the other side, has him almost panicking in order to securely tether all he has to him, tightly, bound. He knows Crowley’s loyalty, has seen it, believes in it – but there is something just quite terrifying about the possibility that he could, one day, decide to walk across Aziraphale’s threshold, and just never return, and there would be nothing Aziraphale could do. Oh, he knows Crowley won’t – but, he _could,_ and he’s made no verbal promise _not to._

Marriage means nothing to angels and demons.

But he cannot think of another way to express that particular desire to Crowley.

It, for lack of a more eloquent saying, gets the point across.

But there’s a small little section of his heart named for Crowley, fragile and precious, and he’s not sure he could quite survive if it was cracked or broken.

And so, he must scheme.

* * *

Crowley had simply said “aight” when Aziraphale asked if he would like to watch a movie on Hallmark channel with him. While not a resounding endorsement, Crowley had hopped the couch at the proper time, set his feet on the coffee table, lounged in corner of the couch, and left an arm curled around the back of the couch, an open invitation that Aziraphale had gladly accepted, gently sitting down and leaning against Crowley’s lounged form.  


Aziraphale laced his fingers together over his knee and crossed his ankles, attempting to be the picture of innocence. He kept his gaze firmly on the television. “I am really rather excited about this. It’s a love story about _bakers,_ Crowley. Bakers!”

“Charming,” Crowley said.

The tale ended, as Aziraphale had made absolutely sure, with a spectacular wedding filled with flowers and joy and vows.

“What do you think of that, Crowley? Marriage?”

“They’ve known each other for five bloody days.” Disdain dripped from his voice. “It’s not like it’s you and me, where it’s been centuries, it’s five bloody days! Five!”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to mark that in the “good sign” or “bad sign” column, so instead he marked it in a “be more careful about the media you make Crowley sit through or he will mumble ‘five days’ under his breath for nearly a week” column.

* * *

A wave of his hand, then, “Crowley!” He pointed upwards. “Look at that billboard!”  


Crowley glanced upwards. Then looked over at Aziraphale. And then looked back up. “Three minutes ago, that was an ad for salads at Wendy’s.”

“Pish posh,” Aziraphale said, hiding his shaking hand behind his back. “Wendy’s doesn’t have salads. It’s fast food, Crowley. You don’t go to fast food for lettuce. That’s preposterous.”

“I know, that’s why I noticed it was a Wendy’s ad. And what kind of name is “Heaven and Hell Engagement Company,” anyway?”

“Clearly not a very considered one.”

* * *

“You want me to do what, now?” The boy was no younger than twenty and yet had not closed his mouth once when chewing his gum. Aziraphale not only knew that it was green, but also that it was spearmint. Trident spearmint.  


Aziraphale resisted the urge to sigh. Or tired to resist. Or considered resisting. “I want you,” he said, clearly articulating. “To fake propose to your girlfriend here, at this restaurant, at this exact time.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve seen all the movies current in the cinema and need entertainment, what does it bloody matter, why? Will you do it?”

The woman by his side – the girlfriend, Aziraphale dearly hopes – plucks the three $100 notes out of his hand. “Mister, for this, I would propose to _you.”_

He isn’t sure why that would be a particular hardship.

He pondered it most of the way while getting dressed for their evening out – a new crepe place in Paris, Aziraphale was extremely excited – but, eventually, attributed it to lack of taste.

Crowley seemed to like him, after all.

Crowley, with his insufferably endearing kindness that he hid behind three layers of swagger, had kept his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders for the entirety of the walk to the restaurant after a child in the lobby had insulted Aziraphale’s bow tie.

Aziraphale was feeling warm and slightly too large for his skin and too full for his smile to contain, and the lunch passed quickly and uneventfully.

That is, of course, until the young, 20-something year old couple at the table next to them had turned every head in the restaurant by a piercing scream and a hug that shattered the bottle of champagne that had, at one point, been sitting on Crowley and Aziraphale’s table.

“Oh look at that,” Aziraphale said, studiously ignoring the dismayed look that Crowley was giving the rapidly emptying bottle. “A proposal. How sweet.”

“How loud,” Crowley countered. Aziraphale was fairly certain he hadn’t even glanced over. Which, in the end, was probably just as well, considering the girl was kissing the boy’s neck with a rather disturbing fervor, and the man was staring, unblinking, at Aziraphale, in what he hoped was just unsubtlety and not a plea for help.

“What a lovely thing, marriage,” Aziraphale tried again, the gears in his head practically visible as they turn, trying find a way to salvage the conversation and continue it. “Have you – any thoughts on it?”

“On what?” Crowley asked. His gaze snaps from the bottle of bubby breathing its last bubbly breath. “Weddings?”

“Yes?”

“I once went to Napoleon Bonaparte and Josephine de Beauharnais’s wedding, did I ever tell you that?” Crowley asks thoughtfully, finger tapping on the table, and Aziraphale can feel himself deflate. “A lot of beautiful roses, I’ll give them that. Though he made them build him a step stool and hide it best they could for all the posing, so he appeared taller in portraits and such. Right wanker, that one.”

“Right, yes, French wanker,” Aziraphale agrees weakly.

The boy, whomever Aziraphale never caught the name of, puts his meal on Aziraphale’s tab, which is probably earned.

* * *

The fact that he simply could have asked Crowley his opinion on the matter had not, in fact, even crossed his mind.  


* * *

He decides to take a break from the attempts when Crowley uses a magazine about wedding bands to swat a fly, and then he feels badly about the fly, and uses the magazine as a make-shift coffin to bury it in their backyard.  


* * *

Crowley and he still spent the vast majority of their time together talking. At risk of sounding smitten, Aziraphale dearly treasured these moments of camaraderie. He faced down the Anti-Christ and Satan himself for them, shouting at Crowley to stop the incoming damnation, because if he didn’t that, “I’ll never to talk to you again,” when what he really meant was, “I’ll never _get_ to talk to you again.” The easy conversation and thoughtless companionship is, frankly, priceless.  


Being said, they have been spending a great deal more of their time lately decidedly _not_ talking, and Aziraphale was not complaining.

The kiss was long, but somehow still chaste – Crowley’s arms were hooked around Aziraphale’s head, and Aziraphale had placed his arms around Crowley’s middle, gently, their lips soft and unhurried, and something very warm spills from Aziraphale’s chest, and he can’t help but sighing, a smile appearing unbidden.

“Like that, angel?” Crowley whispered softly, clearly not looking for an answer, his hands dropping to Aziraphale’s hips, which prompted a blush that he refused to feel embarrassed about. Aziraphale was about to lean in for another kiss – maybe take it a bit further this time, he was so interested in making their way through a book of kama sutra – when Crowley’s hands paused on his hips.

“Anything the matter, dear?” Aziraphale questioned, mumbling into his mouth. Absently, he noticed Crowley dipping his hands into Aziraphale ‘s pockets.

“Whatever are you—Crowley!”

Crowley pulled out the velvet bag, and Aziraphale sincerely considered plucking it from Crowley’s hand and tossing out the window before Crowley could look inside.

“Oh dear, would you please give me—”

Crowley peered into the bag. “Is that a ring?” Crowley asked, utterly incredulous, his large, large eyes somehow still wider.

Aziraphale snatched it back. “You would do better to keep your nose on your face and out of my belongings, Crowley!”

Crowley couldn’t seem to help huffing. “Your pocket was bulging, and you never carry anything on you. Was that an engagement ring?”

“Well, I mean.” Aziraphale stuffed it in his pocket, out of sight, but, unfortunately, not out of mind. Crowley was still staring at him, waiting for answers that Aziraphale didn’t know how to verbalize.

“I wasn’t – am not – sure of your opinion on the matter. I know it’s rather unnecessary. We are committed – or at least, I am most certainly committed – and we don’t need any human ritual to validate that. I did like the idea of the physical representation of that promise, where all can see it – not that I’m being controlling! No dear, you are a free man. Well, hopefully not fully free, but you know what I mean – bullocks, I am making a bit of a mess of this, am I not? Anyway, as I was saying, we don’t need to _actually_ do the marriage, I don’t particularly want a ceremony. We wouldn’t have anyone to invite, anyway. Except perhaps Anathema, and possibly Adam – oh dear, I wonder if his parents would need to be invited, then? That would rather expand the guest list quickly. I wouldn’t want it to get too large – flowers are expensive, and I do love flowers. Anyway, I don’t need it to be a legally binding – well, of course, it wouldn’t _be_ legally binding, as we were technically born in a black hole, which doesn’t look good on a birth certificate—”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted. “Would you please excuse me for a second?”

Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut with a click, and, without pause, Crowley turned, and walked out of sight.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said to himself. “That may have gotten away from me.”

Crowley reappeared precisely 2.1 minutes later, which is far more than enough time for Aziraphale to calculate how long it would take to dig a hole through the entire Earth and pop out on the other side. Of course, he would land somewhere in the Ocean off the coast of New Zealand, but it may be worth a try anyway.

Crowley returned with a small bag, one Aziraphale has seen him tuck in his pockets before.

“As I was saying—” Aziraphale started, but was interrupted by a loud, “Nggghhh – hold on.”

“What?” Aziraphale shifted in place. Crowley grasped his hand, turning it palm up, and then shakes the bag, slightly, just hovering an inch or so above his palm. A ring fell out, landing right in the middle of Aziraphale’s open palm.

“What—” he asked faintly. “Is that—”

“I had it made in 1450BC, during the reign of Thutmose III. There was that jeweler for the Pharaohs you liked—”

“With the funny hat!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Oh yes, I remember.” He reached his other hand out, and gently touched the side of the ring. It’s gold, with one turquoise stone in the middle, and perfectly polished. “Oh, my dear Mr. Crowley. You’ve had it that long?”

“Figured you’d catch up eventually,” he answered. His tone was flippant; his eyes were not.

Aziraphale slipped the ring on his finger, unaccountably pleased by how well it fit. Even then, Crowley knew him so well.

Crowley smiled down at it for six, long, counted seconds, before asking, “So, can I have my ring, now?”

“Oh, dear me, yes.” Aziraphale closed his fist lightly around his own ring and reached into his pocket, pulling out the small bag, and plucking out the sterling silver ring. He handed it over to Crowley, who took it gingerly. He lifted it up to his eyes, inspecting it.

“Emerald?” he questioned, lightly.

“To match your hair.”

Crowley’s eyes lifted from the ring.

“My hair’s red,” Crowley stated blankly.

“Precisely?” Aziraphale said blankly.

After a second or two, Crowley shrugged. He slipped the ring on his left hand, third finger, and raised his hand to inspect it. Something light and happy and utterly, utterly besotted bloomed in his chest as he saw the small but very, very real smile fighting to take over Crowley’s face.

“Well,” Crowley said. He was losing the battle with the smile, and it has a similar bright one threatening to take of Aziraphale’s face. “I’m firmly on the ‘no ceremony’ line. Although – think of all the entropy that weddings cause. It’s a good place for demonic activity.”

Aziraphale frowns, mildly perturbed. “Weddings are a celebration of love – they’re firmly one of ours!”

“Weddings, sure, you guys have, I guess. Receptions are _clearly_ our thing. You ever see one finish without someone in unhappy tears? We simply must.”

“Why, I never,” Aziraphale huffed. “We can have a wedding without a reception!”

“What’s the fun in that, angel?” Crowley laughed, light. “You wouldn’t get to dance.”

“Angels don’t dance.”

“Mhmmm.”

“They don’t!”

“Of course.”

“They don’t!”

“Would you like to get Thai?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said sadly. “I’m afraid that’s slightly hard on the stomach.”

“Miracle away the gastronomical problems, then,” Crowley suggested. He headed towards the door, purpose in his long steps, and Aziraphale hastened to follow. Crowley busted out the door, in that dramatic and theatrical way of his, and Aziraphale silently apologized to the pigeons he scared.

“We’re walking?” He hastened his steps slightly, just to fall into pace with Crowley.  


Crowley slowed slightly, just enough for Aziraphale to comfortably keep pace. “Why not? It’s nice.”

“It is.” Aziraphale tipped his head up, enjoying the sunlight. Blindly, he reached his hand out, and intertwined their fingers.

Their rings clinked together and gleamed in the sunlight.

It was a blue, sunny day.

**Author's Note:**

> Stop and say hi if you wish!


End file.
